American Dreams

by Janet Dailey

  "I paid for all my seed at the time I purchased it. You have made a mistake."

  "You made the mistake thinking you could get by without paying me. Now I want my eighty dollars," the man demanded. "And don't tell me you don't have it 'cause I know the government paid you a handsome settlement for all your properties."

  "I submitted a claim for the personal possessions and property we were forced to abandon, but I received no compensation before we left the agency. Few of us did," he stated crisply. "Your information is as false as your bill."

  "I'm gonna get my eighty dollars one way or another," the man warned, then glared at Kipp when he walked up leading his horse. "Who's he?"

  "My son."

  "Since you say you can't pay me my money, I'm taking your horses." He snatched the reins from Will's hand.

  Will argued with him, but it was useless. The Light Horse guard, members of the Cherokee police force, had no authority over whites, only their own people. They were powerless to intervene, and Jed Parmelee's orders strictly forbade his intervention. Observe and report, that was all he could do.

  That night Jed entered the incident in his journal and questioned the validity of the man's claim. But it was only the first of several such entries he would be forced to make as white claimants plagued the caravan, seizing silver, horses, oxen, and sometimes even wagons as payment for alleged debts. This form of robbery was only one kind of highway piracy the Cherokees encountered. Jed soon learned there were others. Ferry rates were increased; landowners charged a toll for crossing their property; farmers and merchants inflated the prices on provisions purchased along the route, doubling, tripling, and sometimes quadrupling the costs.

  The avarice sickened him, especially when every day Jed witnessed the travail of these proud people, the lines of weariness and despair etched deeper in their faces, their feet bleeding from the miles they walked. Regardless of his orders, Jed helped when and where he could, sometimes throwing a shoulder to the wheel of a stuck wagon or stopping to assist those who had fallen or gathering fat pine to burn in the wagoner's stone to make pitch for lubricating the wheels.

  A third of the way up the steep incline Temple paused along the side of the trail to catch her breath. Lije, cranky and tired of the confinement of being strapped to his mother's back, wailed tearlessly in her ear and squirmed endlessly, his weight and his wiggling causing the cloth straps holding him to cut even deeper into her shoulders. She hadn't the strength to correct him, or the will—not when inside she felt the same urge to cry and the same longing to be free of the onerous grind of this trail.

  A wagon lumbered past her pulled by two teams of horses, their heads bent low, straining against their collars, their hooves digging for each foot of ground while the teamster urged them on with angry curses and the crack of his whip. Temple watched dully, listening to the creaks and groans of the heavy wagon.

  Eliza stopped beside her. "Are you all right, Temple?"

  A cold wind stung her face when Temple turned her head to look at her friend. She almost smiled at the sight of Eliza's sun- and windburned face framed by the blanket draped over her head. With her brown hair and hazel-brown eyes, Eliza looked like a Cherokee. Temple nearly said so, but instead she replied, "I am fine."

  "Let me carry Lije for you."

  She started to agree, then noticed the bulge on Eliza's back and remembered the heavy pack she already carried. Temple immediately felt guilty that her only burden was her son.

  "We will make it."

  She lowered her head and started walking up the long slope. The leather soles of her cloth half-boots were worn thin. With each step, she could feel the rocks, pebbles, and clods of dirt digging into her already tender feet. But it was no more uncomfortable than the rawly chafed skin of her inner thighs, so she plodded on.

  As the trail sloped to a steeper angle, Temple leaned forward, trying to compensate for the wiggling burden on her back. Ahead she could see the aged and stooped figure of old Mrs. Hanks laboring up the trail, a broken branch for a staff. The old woman would never make it to the top without help. The thought had barely occurred to her when a rock rolled out from under her foot, and Temple slipped, one leg going out from under her. Then the other gave way and she fell forward, instinctively extending her arms to absorb the impact. For several seconds, she didn't move from her half-prone, half-kneeling position. The palms of her hands stung and her knee throbbed painfully.

  "Temple."

  At the sound of Eliza's voice, Lije started to cry in earnest. As much as Temple wanted to remain where she was until the pain and the tiredness went away, she gingerly pushed back, letting one knee support most of her weight.

  "I—" She broke off the assurance when moccasined feet suddenly halted in front of her. In the next second, The Blade's hands were under her arms, lifting her to her feet.

  "Are you hurt?"

  "No." She stared at the rigid muscles in his jaw and the grim line of his mouth, then abruptly looked away, glancing behind him at his horse standing quietly. Xandra was astride it, expressionless and silent as always, and—as always—watching The Blade. As inseparable as they were, a stranger was bound to think Xandra was his wife. Jealousy was an ugly feeling. Temple hated it.

  "Climb up behind Xandra and ride to the top of the ridge," The Blade ordered.

  She felt a guiding pressure directing her toward the horse and realized that his hands still supported her. Instinctively, Temple resisted.

  "No."

  "She can ride my horse." Jed Parmelee swung out of the saddle and stepped to the ground.

  "She will ride mine, Lieutenant. You are along to observe." The very smoothness of The Blade's reply carried a challenge.

  "I am not riding either one," Temple inserted sharply. "Help Mrs. Hanks or that little boy with the bandaged foot. I can walk."

  "Maybe you can, but you're not." The Blade didn't give her a chance to argue as he picked her up and heaved her onto the horse's hindquarters behind Xandra.

  "I can walk," she said again, but she was talking to his back as he gathered up the trailing reins and led the horse up the slope.

  If she wanted to walk, all she had to do was slide off, but the thought was a fleeting one. It felt good to let her legs dangle limply and just sit. Reaching around Xandra, Temple held on to the saddle horn and rested her cheek on her sister's shoulder, giving in to the waves of tiredness that washed over her. For once, she welcomed her sister's silence.

  As they passed Mrs. Hanks, Temple felt a twinge of guilt that she was riding and the old woman was walking. Her conscience was eased a few minutes later when she looked back and saw Jed stop to help the woman.

  But there were others. There were always others. Temple tried to shut her eyes to them as they plodded, stumbled, and struggled up the long incline. The Blade carried the hobbling boy with an injured foot and an old man hung on to the horse's tail, letting it pull him along. But the rest had to manage on their own as best they could.

  At the top, the ground leveled off and the horse stopped. Reluctantly, Temple let go of the saddle horn. When her feet touched the ground, her legs threatened to give way. She briefly leaned against the animal's flanks, taking advantage of its solidness, then looked up at her sister.

  "There is nothing wrong with you, Xandra," she accused. "Everyone else has to walk. You should too."

  There was no response, but Temple hadn't expected one. She moved away. Later, when they reached the place where they were to camp that night, she saw Xandra walking. And when they pulled out the next morning, her sister was again on foot.

  28

  Nashville, Tennessee

  Early November 1838

  The Blade hunched his shoulders against the chilling drizzle and held the collar of his coat tightly closed. All day a cold and misty rain had fallen from the leaden clouds overhead. His coat had the musty smell of wet wool, and the penetrating dampness went all the way to the bone. His feet, encased in the mud-soaked leather of his moccas
ins, felt numb as he trudged alongside his horse. A mother and three small children were piled on its back, one of them a baby a few months younger than his son and ill with a fever.

  The crowded wagon ahead of them bumped and bounced over the badly rutted trail. The Blade could hear the faint moans from its cargo of sick and infirm as they were tossed and jarred by the rough passage. The thousands of hooves and feet from the caravans that had traveled over this wagon road before them had chewed up the ground, gouging out jagged furrows and mounding up humps. The steady drizzle slowly turned the trail into a morass of red mud, further impeding their progress and adding to the hardship.

  The sheeting mist obscured the road ahead of him. But, with the cavalcade strung out more than a mile, The Blade doubted he could have seen the lead wagons even without the rain. Still, he was certain the first of them had reached the night's campsite outside of the place previously called French Lick and now known as Nashville.

  He peered off into the distance, recalling that Andrew Jackson lived nearby. After leaving the presidency, Jackson had returned to his plantation, the Hermitage, outside of Nashville. Ten years ago this very month, he had been elected president. In his inaugural address, Jackson had stated his resolve to remove all the Indian nations to the western lands. Never once had he wavered or compromised in achieving that goal. With the Cherokees now en route, he had finally succeeded.

  The Blade wondered if Jackson had ever ridden out to watch their passing caravans. He doubted it. Recently there had been reports that Jackson was in poor health—growing deaf, losing the sight in his right eye, and suffering memory lapses. Supposedly, he was having financial problems, too. Perhaps there was justice after all, The Blade thought wryly. It was certain he would receive no sympathy from the Cherokees.

  Beside him, Xandra stumbled over a rut, her foot slipping on the thin layer of slick mud. He tried to catch her as she pitched forward, but his reflexes were too slow, too numbed by the damp cold, and she fell.

  "Are you all right?" He crouched next to her.

  She nodded affirmatively and tried to push herself up, but her hands slipped in the mud.

  "I'll help." When he hooked an arm around her middle to haul her upright, his hand moved over her stomach. Momentarily he froze, feeling its firm, protruding roundness—the distinctive roundness of a woman in the middle months of pregnancy. Carefully, he altered his hold and lifted Xandra to her feet. But she hung her head and refused to look at him, pulling the blanket even farther over her head to hood her face. "Are you with child, Xandra?" He fought to keep his voice level and calm, and not betray the anger inside him.

  She nodded her head once, then whispered, "No one must know."

  "Xandra." He closed his eyes briefly. "They have to know."

  "No," she sobbed and pushed away from him to hurry up the trail.

  By the time the last stragglers arrived at the selected campsite, the drizzle had turned to a slow rain that saturated the ground, leaving not a dry place to sleep nor a dry stick to be found. They gathered wood anyway, cut shavings for kindling from the dry heart, and built small fires beneath the shelter of canvas lean-tos to cook much-needed hot meals and drive out some of the numbing dampness.

  The Blade poured more coffee into his tin mug, then set the pot on a flat stone next to the feebly burning fire. In the far corner beneath the sloping canvas roof, Xandra sat huddled in a tight ball beyond the reach of the small fire's glow and heat. She had avoided him ever since The Blade had discovered the secret she had tried to hide beneath the loose folds of her long dress and blanket.

  He knew she was there, but it was the canvas flap of a nearby wagon that he watched, waiting for Eliza to emerge. She had gone inside several minutes ago carrying a tin plate of hot mush for Victoria.

  Temple ducked under the dripping edge of the lean-to's roof. She glanced his way briefly, then moved to the fire and held out her hands to its rising warmth, shivering convulsively. He wanted to go to her and rub warmth back into her body, but she had made it plain to him, both at the detention camp and on the trail, that she didn't want his company or his affection.

  Which made it all the harder for him to accept seeing her talk to that army lieutenant Jed Parmelee. She had to know the man was still in love with her. Temple was many things—willful, headstrong, volatile—but she wasn't blind. Why would she encourage him if it wasn't what she wanted? He was surprised Parmelee wasn't at their campfire tonight. But the night wasn't over yet.

  A blanketed figure lifted aside the canvas flap and clambered down from the wagon. The Blade set his cup on the flat top of an upended cask and moved out from beneath the leanto's shelter into the rain. Striding quickly through the sucking mud, he crossed to the wagon, passing Kipp as he returned with an armload of wet firewood. Eliza nearly ran into him in her haste to escape the cold raindrops.

  She stopped abruptly when she found him in her path, and she tilted her head up, the blanket slipping back to reveal the tightly curling ringlets of her damp hair. "You startled me," she declared, adding a shaky laugh.

  "Sorry." From the wagon came the sound of a racking cough. The Blade glanced toward the flap, then at the plate in Eliza's hand and the rain-diluted mush only half gone. "How is she?"

  Eliza hesitated, her shoulders moving faintly in the suggestion of a shrug. "She was jolted around a lot today. And this cold, damp weather ... it seems to aggravate her cough."

  He checked the movement Eliza made toward the lean-to. "I need to speak to you privately for a moment."

  "Of course." She paused, studying him curiously and losing much of her drawn and tired look in the process. "What about?"

  "Xandra. She is with child." He needed the bluntness to take the edge off his anger.

  "No." Eliza stared at him in shock, then turned toward the huddled figure tucked deep in the shadows of the lean-to, her expression ranging from sorrow to pity and covering all the shades in between.

  "She is frightened and ashamed. She needs a woman. She needs you, Eliza."

  He didn't have to say more. Eliza walked past him, slowly at first, then quickening her steps to dash across the mud. When she reached the canvas shelter, she paused and shook the water from her blanket, then laid the plate on the stone next to the fire.

  Over and over again the same phrase kept running through her mind: Poor Xandra, poor, dear Xandra. It wasn't fair. The girl had suffered enough. They all had. But pity wasn't what she needed, Eliza knew that. She walked slowly over to the girl and crouched down, catching her long skirt up and tucking it under her knees to keep it out of the mud. Xandra bowed her head even lower, the hooding blanket hiding most of her face. She was trembling. Whether from the cold or from fear, Eliza couldn't tell.

  "Xandra, I know," she said gently. "The Blade told me." The blanket started to shake harder. "Will you look at me?" When she received no response, Eliza framed Xandra's blanketed head in her hands and forced it up. Tears streamed from Xandra's tightly closed eyes, her chin and lips quivering. "Look at me, please. It is going to be all right."

  "No, it isn't," Xandra mumbled.

  But Eliza wanted to cry with relief. Those were the first words Xandra had spoken to her since that awful incident had occurred. "Of course it will," she insisted. "No matter what you think, we still love you. We always will."

  Xandra opened her eyes, though only to slits veiled with tears. She pressed her lips tightly together, her face contorting and twisting as violent, silent sobs racked her body. With tears now running from her own eyes, Eliza gathered Xandra into her arms and hugged her close, pressing her blanketed head to her shoulder.

  "Everybody will know, won't they?" Xandra moaned softly and brokenly. "They will know. I am so ashamed."

  "Shhh, now. It will be all right."

  "They will look at me just like they look at The Blade. They will hate me, too."

  "No, darling. No."

  But Xandra wouldn't listen to her. Eliza let her cry for now and simply held her, rocking
back and forth and feeling sorry, sorry for so many things. She felt a hand touch her shoulder and looked up.

  "What's wrong?" Temple bent down.

  Eliza hesitated, aware that she couldn't leave Temple's question unanswered, and aware that somehow she had to reassure Xandra. She chose her words carefully, trying to satisfy both. "Your sister is going to have a baby."

  "She told you that?"

  Eliza shook her head and nodded in The Blade's direction. "She thinks we will all hate her now, but I have told her she is being silly. Isn't that right?"

  "Yes. Yes, it is," Temple murmured, stunned by her husband's choice of confidantes.

  Temple straightened, then slowly turned. The Blade was drinking something and watching her, his rain-wet hair glistening blackly in the firelight. Angry and hurt, she walked over to him.

  "Why?" Temple demanded, her voice choking on the thickness in her throat. "Why did you tell Eliza? I am Xandra's sister. Why didn't you tell me?"

  "Because ... I believed Eliza could give her the kind of understanding and support that Xandra needed."

  "And you thought I couldn't?"

  "Not as well as Eliza."

  "How would you know?"

  "I think I proved my choice was the right one. Your sister needs you, but it is Eliza who is with her. You are standing here talking to me. Why? Because your feelings were hurt. You don't care about anyone's feelings but your own."

  "That is not true!"

  "You never gave a damn about mine when you left. And you haven't since." He set the cup down and turned to leave her, all in one motion.

  She wanted to shout at him that she did care about his feelings. She cared too much. That's why she was so hurt when he hadn't come to see her. And it was also why she went back to her sister and helped Eliza dry her eyes.

  For three days, they remained at the Nashville encampment, resting from the arduous trek over the Cumberlands. They tended to their sick and injured, repaired their wagons, and purchased more provisions to carry them over the next leg. A cold rain fell two of those days. Not until the third were they able to dry out their clothes and blankets.