by Janet Dailey
"I know." The Blade nodded. "But they are gone. I am here."
"Don't leave me."
"I won't," he promised.
Over and over he whispered words of assurance while Temple looked on, hating the helpless feeling but hating even more the men who had done this to her sister, hating with such force that she vibrated with it. When The Blade lowered Xandra onto the blanket that was his bed, Xandra immediately rolled onto her side, turning her back to Temple and hunching her shoulders as if trying to hide.
Her sister had always been the shy and quiet one, a little slow to grasp things yet so anxious to please. Now she lay there motionless, her dress soiled and torn, her black hair in tangles, and her face smudged with dirt and tears like some battered doll.
Angrily, Temple rose to her feet, determined to make them pay for what they had done. She felt a hand on her arm and spun around to face The Blade. Yet she couldn't focus on him; she couldn't focus on anything except the blinding need for vengeance.
"Who are they? Which ones did this?" she demanded hoarsely.
"I don't know. She was alone when I found her."
She curled her hands into fists, digging her nails into her palms. "They should be hanged. I would like to kill them myself. I wish I had a gun, or a knife—anything!" Temple blazed. "I hate them!"
He seemed to study her curiously. "You are the Temple I married, fiery and alive," he mused absently. "Not the cold, passionless woman I have seen these last months."
"I wish you were the man I married instead of the traitor you have become!" she shot back, not noticing the way he recoiled as if she had physically struck him. She was too angry to care if she hurt him, too filled with hatred to remember the tender way he had treated Xandra. She whirled and ran out of the pen straight to the post commander's office to demand that the guards guilty of committing the vile act against her sister be punished.
A week later, Jed Parmelee made one of his infrequent visits to the camp. After being informed of the incident and the known facts surrounding it, he summoned both Temple and her father to the commander's office to advise them of the final disposition of the case.
Although he addressed his remarks to Will Gordon, Jed found it difficult to meet his level gaze, seeing in it the recent grief for his dead son and the anguish over his now damaged daughter. "The two soldiers involved in this regrettable incident have been confined in the guardhouse."
"For how long?" Temple demanded.
He hesitated a moment, then spoke briskly. "In view of their exemplary military record in the past, they will be serving a two-week sentence." When Temple breathed in sharply, Jed lowered his chin a fraction of an inch and added stiffly, "I am sorry, but that was the term handed down."
After what seemed a long silence, Will Gordon quietly said, "I understand."
"I do not."
Jed flinched inwardly at Temple's bitterly sharp response. "Would you mind waiting outside, Mr. Gordon? I would like to speak to your daughter alone for a few minutes."
"Of course."
As Will Gordon turned to leave the room, Jed glanced pointedly at the post commander, his senior in rank. "Sir, would you please leave the door open on your way out?" he requested, doubting the major would argue with an aide of their commanding general.
Temple left her chair and crossed to the small window, too upset and outraged by the lenient sentence to appreciate Jed's concern for her reputation.
A hot breeze chased a cloud of red dust across the compound, obscuring the ground in a swirling fog of powdery dirt. The sight of it made her conscious of the grit that clung to her skin and her clothes, and the matted filth of her hair. For weeks, they had had no soap for bathing and no water to spare. She hated being seen like this. It was humiliating and degrading—but not nearly as horrible as what Xandra had been through.
When the last footsteps receded from the room, she turned to face Jed, holding on tightly to the only three things she had left: her dignity, her pride, and her anger. "Two weeks. That is their punishment for what they did to my sister. You should see her," she protested thickly. "You should see the fear and the shame in her eyes."
"I am sorry."
"I don't want your pity. I want those men punished."
"You don't understand." He sighed. He stared at her for several seconds, a troubled frown knitting his brow together. "I. . . couldn't tell your father this, but both men swore under oath that your sister was ... a willing participant. They claimed she agreed, if they would give her whiskey."
"That is a lie!"
"Temple, there was no evidence, no testimony to dispute their statements. Your sister refused to talk to the provost marshal or answer any of his questions."
"She refuses to talk to anyone," Temple admitted. Anyone, that is, except The Blade. Since that awful morning, Xandra had become his shadow. She wouldn't go anywhere or do anything without him. She even slept beside him at night. Yet she cringed every time one of the family approached her.
"I wish there was something I could do," Jed murmured.
"I know." She finally believed that.
He half turned from her. "I can't stand seeing you in this camp," he muttered savagely. "You don't belong here."
"None of us do." Her faint smile of sadness became twisted with the injustice of it. "We are imprisoned for the crime of loving our homeland. For that same crime, we are to be exiled."
He took a step toward her. "I wish you weren't going. I wish—" Then he stopped, checking whatever he was about to say. "Tell your father that Chief John Ross has met with General Scott. He has insisted on the closing of all grogshops in the vicinity of the camps and the suppression of any smuggling of liquor into them. The general has agreed. I know the action comes too late for your sister, but—"
"He will be glad that others will be spared. Bitterness and resentment are foreign to him."
"Ross has appointed a committee to make regular inspections of the camps and ascertain your people's needs, whether for food or clothing or medical help."
"Soap. We need soap," she said, then turned and walked from the room.
Moved by the poignancy of such a simple request, Jed stared after her. He tried to feel sorry for her, but he couldn't. All he could feel was admiration and the deepest respect. After all she had endured, her head was unbowed.
Ross obtained even greater concessions from General Winfield Scott. He requested and received permission for the Cherokees to organize and conduct their own emigration, taking it out of the army's hands. The council would arrange transportation, set up the detachments, and lead the emigrant trains to their new lands in the West. They accepted full responsibility for the conduct of their people in the interim.
In theory, the Cherokees were freed on their own recognizance pending the September 1 deadline for emigration. But they had nowhere to go. The camps were the only homes that remained to them, a source of food, shelter, and much-needed medical aid. But at least they were free to wander through the woods to gather herbs, wild berries, and nuts, and to privately bid farewell to their beloved mountains and valleys. And the daily rations now included the addition of coffee, sugar, and soap.
Another committee was set up to accept claims from individuals for property that had been abandoned. The list Will Gordon submitted for compensation was a lengthy one, billing the government for his fine brick home, all the elegant furnishings, the plantation's numerous buildings, and equipment, livestock, and carriages. It lay side by side with more humble ones requesting payment for a fiddle, a coffeepot, and six ducks.
September came, but not the expected rains. Again Scott postponed the deadline, this time until October.
27
Rattlesnake Springs, Tennessee
October 1838
The wood smoke from thousands of cookfires spread a blue veil over the landscape and scented the crisp morning air with its pungent odor. Beneath the haze, sprawling over ten square miles, were tents, wagons, horses, oxen, and the Cherokees, assemb
led at the departure point for the long trail west.
As he gazed at the vast camp bustling with activity, Will Gordon heard its underlying silence and understood. The last day of September, thunderheads had rolled out of the Smoky Mountains in the north and brought rain to the parched lands of Tennessee and Georgia, ending the summer-long drought. Again water chuckled in the streams, raised the river levels, and turned the wheels of the gristmills.
Honoring John Ross's word when he persuaded General Scott to lift the martial law and permit the Cherokees to organize and conduct their own emigration without army control, the people had gathered here at Rattlesnake Springs near the Indian agency, some thirteen thousand counting their Negroes. They came but without smiles, joyful hearts, or cheerful voices. That sense of silence came from heavy hearts and somber thoughts.
"Will?"
Recognizing Eliza's voice, he turned.
"It is time," she said.
"I know." For a minute he studied her, noting the familiar gold flecks in her hazel eyes and the attractive tumble of pale brown curls that framed her face. Love, gratitude, and need welled up inside him for this indomitable woman, emotions that added to the pain he already felt. Not wanting her to see it, he swung his gaze back to the encampment that stretched farther than he could see. He felt her eyes leave him to survey it as well.
"I have to agree with The Blade," Eliza announced quietly after the passage of several seconds. "A nation is made up of people, not land. It is their collective spirit that forms it, not boundaries. All these people are traveling as a nation with their laws, their constitution, their government, and their heritage intact. In its own way, that's a remarkable achievement, one they can all take pride in."
Nodding, Will acknowledged the truth of her statement. At the council grounds at Red Clay, all the records of the Nation had been safely packed and boxed to be taken west with them. More than just their constitution and laws, the documents included the succession of treaties the Nation had made in efforts to appease the appetites of their white neighbors, as well as correspondence with every president of the United States from George Washington to Martin Van Buren.
Yet it wasn't the pending transportation of the national records that made him frown but her initial statement. "I don't understand him."
"Who?"
"The Blade. He betrayed us all by signing that treaty. Yet in the detention camp, he didn't try to get favored treatment. We all know the supporters of the treaty received special dispensations from the federal government. But he hasn't asked for an increase in his travel and subsistence allowance. The group of seven or eight hundred that left on the eleventh with their carriages and horses, accompanied by their servants—he could have joined them and made the twelve-hundred-mile trek in relative comfort. They would have welcomed him. He could have been among friends instead of surrounded by those who regard him as a traitor and look upon him with loathing and contempt."
"His actions in the past were never dictated by a desire for personal gain. The things you have said prove that," Eliza reminded him. "And I think that is becoming obvious to a lot of others. Maybe I am wrong, or maybe I have become too used to it, but the hostility toward him doesn't seem as strong as it was in the beginning. Even Kipp seems a little more tolerant of him."
"I admit some of my respect for him has returned." Will stared at the vast camp. "Maybe in time I will forgive him, but I will never forget what he has done."
"I know." She nodded, the brightness of unshed tears in her eyes. "So does he. And which, I wonder, is worse?"
There was no answer for that, and Will knew it. Together they turned to face the line of wagons that stretched over the road into the heavy forest. Temple and the rest of the family were clustered beside the nearest wagon. Walking together, Eliza and Will rejoined them.
Four caravans had already started on the long overland trail, their departures staggered a few days apart. Theirs was the fifth to leave. Some forty wagons were loaded with fodder for the horses and oxen, blankets, cooking utensils, and provisions for the initial stages of their journey, with more to be purchased along the way as needed.
Only the very old and the very young, the ill and the infirm were allowed to ride in the wagons. Except for the ten mounted riders of the Cherokee Light Horse guard assigned to police the train, all the rest had to walk, carrying their few personal possessions in packs on their backs.
Will lifted Victoria into the wagon and tried not to notice her bony thinness and sallow complexion, or the deep melancholy and grief in her eyes. He made her as comfortable as he could and silently reminded himself that a physician would be making the trek with them. Should she need it, she would have good medical care.
"Try to rest," he urged.
When he started to leave, her talonlike fingers seized his arm. "Our dead babies, Will, I always wanted to be buried with them. Now we are leaving."
"I know." He patted her hand. The children—it was always the children. Once he would have resented that she hadn't considered being buried next to him. Now he accepted it. Will hesitated, then kissed her cheek and climbed out of the wagon.
Temple noticed his long face as she shifted a squirming Lije to her other hip. "Is Mama all right?"
"She is fine."
They both knew that wasn't true, but Temple accepted his answer and turned to face the long road and the line of wagons pointing the way. Here and there, people bade good-bye to friends or relatives who would soon follow.
It had come. The Blade lounged near the front wagon wheel, Xandra, as always, by his side. Temple could feel his gaze on her, but she couldn't look at him.
The pounding of a horse's hooves grew louder. Glancing over her shoulder, Temple saw the rider's plumed shako and blue uniform bearing an officer's epaulets. Almost certain it was Jed Parmelee, she turned. A smile broke below the rider's golden mustache as he reined his mount to a prancing walk. Lije clapped his hands excitedly at the snorting horse.
"Ho'se, Mama." Eyes as blue as the army uniform Jed wore beamed proudly at her.
"Yes, it is a horse, Lije," Jed agreed with a chuckle. "You would think by now they wouldn't be a novelty to him." He spoke casually, as though they had seen each other only yesterday instead of nearly a month ago.
"I hoped I would have a chance to tell you good-bye before we left," Temple said and grabbed Lije's hand when he reached to pat the horse's nose.
"Not good-bye. I will be riding with you—all the way to the Indian Territory. Strictly in the capacity of an observer, of course," Jed added with a wry smile.
Temple was spared an immediate reply as the horse swung its hindquarters around, forcing her to move out of its way. She wasn't sure whether or not she was glad he would be traveling with them. All she felt at the moment was confusion.
"It will be a long ride," she said finally.
The smile faded from his face as his expression turned sober. "And a longer walk."
The order came down the line to move on. Whips cracked over the backs of horse teams and yoked oxen as drivers shouted to them, curses mingling with commands. After the first groaning turn of the wheels, the wagons rumbled forward. Temple turned and started walking, carrying her young son in her arms.
Jed's horse impatiently pushed at the restraining bit, but Jed continued to check its forward movement. A horse carrying double entered his line of vision. It was Temple's husband and her sister. Briefly, Jed met the man's glance and saw the resentment in the grim blue eyes. But Jed didn't feel any guilt. While it was true Temple was married to Stuart, from all he had seen, their relationship wasn't that of a husband and wife. Maybe he was a fool to think he had a chance with her, but he had to find out.
He relaxed the pressure on the bit and the horse lunged forward, its hindquarters bunching and driving. At a canter, Jed rode up the line, the autumn-colored forest on his left a flashing blur of rich yellows, golds, and oranges.
The cavalcade of wagons and people stretched over a quarter of a mil
e. To Jed, it resembled the march of an army, the officers at the front leading the way, the wagons in the middle flanked by outriders, more riders bringing up the rear, and the infantry—in this case men, women, and children—trudging in small groups around and behind each wagon.
A few miles from Rattlesnake Springs, the caravan crossed to the north side of the Hiwassee River by ferry, then traveled downstream to its mouth at the Tennessee River, following the well-worn route taken by the four previous detachments. From there, the trail would take them south of Pikesville to McMinnville and Nashville, then on to the Cumberland. But first they had to cross the Tennessee.
With Lije asleep on her back, strapped in place by a blanket, Temple stood at the ferry's rail next to Eliza and stared at the wide expanse of water before them. Their long journey had barely begun, yet already she was footsore, leg sore, and body sore. On the other side of the river loomed Walden's Ridge. As Temple looked at the escarpment of the Cumberland plateau waiting to be climbed, she could almost feel her leg muscles screaming in protest. Unconsciously, she leaned closer to Eliza.
"How many more will we have to climb?" she wondered aloud.
"It is probably best if we don't know." Eliza turned from the sight as if she found it too daunting as well. The most she had ever walked at any one time was perhaps two miles. Now she faced a journey of more than a thousand miles on foot.
When the ferry entered the current, it shuddered sickeningly, resisting the powerful tug that tried to sweep it downstream. Pulled taut, the heavy ropes groaned under the strain of holding the ferry on its angling course to the other side.
They reached the landing on the opposite bank and a fancily dressed white man accosted Will the instant he stepped ashore leading his horse. "They tell me you're the Gordon that had that big brick plantation down in Georgia."
"I am." Will walked his horse up the dirt ramp, moving out of the way of the others behind him.
The man followed. "You owe me eighty dollars for seed and I want my money. Maybe you thought you could leave without paying me, but you were wrong."