by Janet Dailey
With winter approaching and less than a third of the trail traversed, the lack of adequate clothing became obvious. Seized in the summer and forced to march to the detention camps with only the clothes on their backs, the people had little to protect them from the cold but the blankets issued by the government. Some were without shoes, or, like Temple and Eliza with their cloth half-boots, they had holes in the soles and the material was rotting from the mud and streams they had waded through.
Overexertion and fatigue, constant exposure to the elements, lack of rest from trying to sleep on cold wet ground, and a summer spent in deplorable circumstances lowered their resistance. Many were already sick when they started out from Nashville following a northwest course to Kentucky.
Graves began to mark the route, graves of their dead and the dead of the caravans that had preceded them. Near Hopkinsville, a white flag hung limply over a wooden marker painted to look like marble, identifying the grave of White Path, one of their aged leaders. As their detachment passed it, Temple paused with her father to pray for the venerable old man—and for themselves.
The reports filtering back from the contingents ahead of them spoke of discouragement and despair. Many feared the claims for abandoned property they had submitted to the federally appointed commissioners prior to their departure would not be fairly settled, and that they would be cheated out of their just compensation by whites falsely dunning them.
But they had already come more than two hundred miles. There was no turning back. They trudged on, traveling on a road that was sometimes frozen solid and other times a mire of cold mud. And always, it seemed, with a bitter wind blowing in their faces.
29
Illinois Side of the Mississippi River
January 1839
The slow, rhythmic thud of the pickax reminded Eliza of the mournful sound of a bass drum beating out a funeral cadence. She watched silently as The Blade, Deu, and Shadrach chiseled a grave out of the frozen, snow-covered ground. Nearby lay the blanket-wrapped body waiting to be interred. Black Cassie knelt beside her dead husband, Ike, and rocked slowly back and forth, ignoring all of Phoebe's attempts to comfort her. Her low moans mingled with the keening sound of the wind.
Ike, Will's Negro smithy, was dead. It seemed impossible that a man so big and strong could fall victim to pneumonia. So many others had died, littering the trailsides with their graves, Eliza didn't know why she found this so hard to accept. She pulled the blanket higher, covering more of her nose and leaving only her eyes exposed to the frigid cold.
Maybe it wasn't his death but the icy fear she recoiled from— that terrifying sense of being trapped. Ten days ago they had arrived at this spot, only to find they couldn't go on. The Mississippi was frozen over, but the ice was too thin to support the weight of the wagons and too thick for ferries to plow through. Caravan after caravan was bottled up on this peninsula of land bounded by the Ohio and Mississippi rivers, bottled up with little to protect them from winter's brutal cold and raging snowstorms. Virtually everyone was sick, some more critically than others. To the dysentery, measles, whooping cough, and pleurisy of the detention camps last summer could be added frostbite, colds, consumption, pneumonia, and black tongue.
Across the ice-bound Mississippi from their encampment lay Cape Girardeau, Missouri. No one speculated when they might reach it. They were more than halfway to their final destination in the designated Indian Territory. The journey was supposed to have taken them ninety days. The ninety days were up and they still had four hundred miles to go once they crossed the Mississippi.
Eliza wondered if they would ever make it, if she would make it. God, what was she doing here? Then Will moved closer, huddling his blanket-cloaked body against hers and shielding her from some of the wind. That momentary panic faded. She knew the reason she was there, and the reason she wouldn't leave.
Jed Parmelee rode up to the gravesite. Eliza stared enviously at his heavy greatcoat, the wool muffler, and the thick gloves he wore. Dismounting, he let the reins trail on the snow and walked over to the grave. Without a word, he laid his hand on Shadrach's shoulder and took the shovel from him to scoop out the chunks of frozen earth. Shadrach watched, holding his rag-wrapped hands to his mouth and blowing on his fingers, trying to warm them. Then he turned and limped over to join his mother and sister, more rags covering his feet.
At last, the grave was dug. "It's time, Mammy," Shadrach murmured, gazing at her wet cheeks and tear-swollen eyes. "We have to bury him now." She broke into fresh sobs when he knelt beside Ike's body and began to tenderly lift back the overlapping folds of the blanket.
"What you doin'?" Cassie demanded through her weeping.
"Pa doesn't need this blanket anymore. We do."
"No!" She grabbed at his arm. "You cain't lay him in that cold ground wid nothin' to cover him."
"He can't feel the cold. You know he'd want us to have it so we'd be warm."
"Shad's right." Phoebe shivered uncontrollably from the freezing temperature despite the blanket around her shoulders and the extra pair of Deu's pants she wore under her thin summer dress. "He would tell us to take it, if he could."
Cassie cried as Shadrach unwrapped the blanket and exposed that long black body clad in a tattered shirt and homespun trousers held up by a pair of suspenders—his feet bare, his hands bare, and his face bare.
The whole family, except Victoria, looked on as Deu, The Blade, and Jed Parmelee lowered Ike's corpse into the grave. It was too cold to linger. They all in turn stepped forward to express their sorrow and regret to his woman and children. The bone-numbing weather made any physical gesture impossible. Then they all plodded back through the snow to the blessed heat of their fires, leaving Deu to shovel the clods of frozen dirt into the unmarked grave.
Jed stood next to the fire and pulled his muffler down to breathe in the warmed air. Out of habit, he held his gloved hands over the fire and stared at the flames, unconsciously working his mouth to ease its stiffness.
Summer's blazing heat was a distant memory—the heat and the sweat that used to flow from his pores. The lack of water had forced the postponement of the Cherokees' removal. If Scott had known how much these people would suffer trying to make the trek in the dead of winter, he would have postponed it again, Jed was sure.
The dead of winter—the turn of phrase was much too appropriate, he realized. The mortality rate was running close to twenty percent, and that didn't take into account the deaths of slaves, like Ike. When would it end? How many more would die before the caravan reached its destination?
He had never felt so utterly helpless. He had given away every extra piece of warm clothing he owned—shirts, socks, flannel drawers, pants, boots, and uniforms—government-issue or not. If the army wanted to reprimand him for giving away government property, that was all right by him. But he couldn't stand by and do nothing to alleviate their suffering. He wasn't the only one. John Ross's brother Lewis, who headed one of the caravans encamped near Jonesboro, had gone north to St. Louis to try to purchase blankets and clothing with his own funds.
A paroxysm of coughing sounded behind him, breaking over the pleasant crackle of the fire. At first, Jed paid no attention to it, thinking it was The Blade. He had heard him cough several times at the gravesite and guessed he was nursing a cold. Then he realized the sound wasn't the same.
Frowning, he glanced over his shoulder as Temple's two-year-old son sucked in a long draft of air, then started to gag, finally expelling a clear, sticky mucus from his throat. The convulsive way he inhaled and the sound of it—Jed had heard it too many times in the camp.
"Has the doctor seen Lije?"
Temple shook her head and cradled her whimpering son in her arms, folding her own blanket around him. "It was only a little cough the other day."
It wasn't little anymore. "I'll find the doctor and bring him back."
Within an hour, Jed had returned with the caravan's cold, harried, and overworked physician. The doctor examined the ch
ild briefly, then helped himself to a cup of coffee and stood shivering next to the fire.
"Your son has whooping cough," he informed Temple. "There's not much I can do for him right now. If he starts vomiting when he coughs up that mucus, I recommend you feed him several times a day. It seems to help if he has plenty of sleep. I have some laudanum in my bag which I'll leave with you, but don't give him any more than four drops, and that no more than three times a day. If he gets worse, has trouble breathing, or anything like that, send someone to fetch me. Otherwise ..." He shrugged, raised the tin cup to his mouth, and sipped noisily at the hot coffee. "How is your mother? I might as well check on her while I'm here," he said and sighed heavily.
"I'll go with you," Eliza volunteered. "I was on my way to put these hot stones under her mattress."
"Bed warmer, eh? My mother put hot bricks in our bed at night when my brother and I were kids. Damned uncomfortable if you accidentally rolled onto one." As he walked by, The Blade coughed. The physician paused, frowning at him. "I don't like the sound of that, either. Does your chest hurt? Should I be examining you, too?"
"No." The Blade waved him away.
"Suit yourself. God knows, I have more patients than I can take care of now." He walked off. "Don't let me forget to leave that laudanum with you before I go."
A north wind howled through the stand of trees as Eliza scuffled over the thin snow cover, looking for broken branches and dead limbs buried beneath it. Every day they had to range farther and farther from camp in search of firewood. She wondered how long it would be before the supply of deadfall was exhausted and they would have to resort to chopping down trees. At least there were trees. She hated to think what would happen if there was no fuel at all to burn.
Her toe struck something. She brushed aside the snow with her foot and picked up another large stick to add to her small bundle. Pausing, Eliza looked to see if Xandra and Kipp were faring any better. For an instant, she thought she was totally alone, surrounded only by dark trunks of barren trees. Then she caught a movement far to her left. Someone was leaning against a tree. Xandra. But Kipp was nowhere in sight.
Eliza glanced anxiously at the heavy gray clouds overhead. It was late, and there was a threat of snow in the air. Where was Kipp? Why hadn't she insisted they stay closer together?
Abandoning her search for more firewood, she struck out through the snow to link up with Xandra. She lowered her blanket and shouted, "Xandra! Where's Kipp? Have you seen him?" But Xandra didn't answer. Instead, she sank slowly to the ground. "Xandra?"
Eliza halted briefly in alarm, then broke into a run, the cold tearing at her lungs. By the time she reached the girl, she was out of breath, her lungs burning and her heart pounding. She half stumbled and half dropped to her knees beside Xandra, all curled up in a tight ball at the base of the tree.
"Xandra, what is it? What's wrong?" Forgetting her own blanket and the bundle of sticks, she cupped her hand under Xandra's chin and lifted it so she could see her face. There was hardly any color in it and it was all twisted in pain. Eliza breathed in sharply at the stark agony and terror in Xandra's dark eyes. Her mouth opened, but she appeared to be incapable of speech. Suddenly, Xandra doubled over again and released a gasping moan. Then Eliza noticed that she was holding her stomach.
"Dear God, no. Not the baby," she whispered. It was too soon. Much too soon. "We have got to get you back to camp. Come on, Xandra. Help me." Hooking one arm around her, Eliza tried to lift and push the girl to her feet. Then she saw the blood on the white snow underneath Xandra. "Kipp!" She screamed his name but she knew she didn't dare waste time waiting for him.
Holding Xandra under the arms and locking her hands together above the girl's breasts, Eliza started walking backward, dragging Xandra through the woods toward the wood smoke of the distant camp. Xandra's twisting and writhing in pain only made the task harder, just when Eliza thought she couldn't haul her another step, that maybe she should leave Xandra and go for help, Kipp came running through the trees.
Anxious and restless, Eliza moved away from the campfire outside the doctor's tent. She shivered, but she didn't want to be warm. Will stood near the fire, staring into the flames, his expression blank. If she had only insisted Xandra stay close to her, Eliza thought, or if she had simply asked her how she felt before they went to gather firewood, she might have seen that something was wrong with Xandra, that she wasn't feeling well. Dear God, was it her fault? Eliza shut her eyes tightly, trying to squeeze out the pain and guilt, and instantly the image of that trail of blood in the snow flashed before her. She breathed in deeply to check the sob that rose in her throat.
Eliza turned and saw The Blade leaning against a corner of the wagon, forsaking the warmth of the fire as she had. She went over to him. Lately, people had paid little attention to him. They were more concerned with surviving than nourishing hatreds for past wrongs.
Now Xandra might not survive. There had been so much blood, Eliza remembered with a shudder. She glanced at the canvas flap. "The doctor has been with her a long time," she murmured.
"I know," The Blade said, then started coughing from the congestion in his lungs.
"Temple will be worried. Maybe one of us should go back and let her know there isn't any word yet."
"Send Parmelee. He wouldn't turn down the chance to comfort her." His statement implied bitterness and jealousy, yet his tone was flat, devoid of any emotion.
It hurt her to see The Blade and Temple like this, together yet so very far apart, especially when Eliza could remember so clearly the love that had existed between them, a love that had been expressed in every word, every gesture, every look they exchanged.
The doctor emerged. All eyes swung to him. For several seconds, he said nothing, but when he glanced away, the defeated look in his face said it all.
"I'm sorry." He sighed and crossed to the fire. "I lost her."
"The baby?" Will paused expectantly.
"A boy. He didn't have a chance."
"Oh, God." Eliza tried to swallow the sob. "Why couldn't I have found her sooner?"
"Even if she had been right here with me when it happened ..." the doctor began. "I don't think I could have saved her, not under these conditions—maybe not under any."
Perhaps it was true, but Eliza knew she would always wonder. When Will slowly walked over to her, she wanted to run, certain she would find accusation in his gaze. But she didn't, just the pain of grief. He laid his rag-tied hand against her cheek and wiped away a tear with his thumb.
"I know how much you loved her, too," he said quietly.
She leaned against the comforting wall of his chest and cried.
They buried Xandra and her stillborn son the next morning.
30
His son, his servant, his daughter, and her child, all dead. Will sat on the ground near the fire, his blanket a tent around him. He was beyond thinking or feeling as he stared at the bright flames. Cold numbed his body and grief numbed his mind. He had reached the point where he couldn't cry anymore, on the inside or out.
He heard the crunch of approaching footsteps in the snow, but they didn't mean anything to him. When Temple crouched down beside him, his gaze never wavered from the fire. Faint wisps of steam rose from the plate of food she carried.
"Mama wouldn't eat tonight. She keeps asking for Xandra." She paused, waiting for him to speak, but he had nothing to say. "We aren't going to be able to keep it from her. She has already guessed that something is wrong. We have to tell her."
Wearily, he closed his eyes, wanting to shut out her prodding voice. Talking meant thinking, and thinking meant feeling. He preferred the numbness that had taken hold of him at the grave-site this morning.
From somewhere nearby came Eliza's quiet voice. "I will go."
"No." At first he didn't realize he had spoken the thought aloud. It had come too quickly. With that first thought came more. He couldn't let Eliza tell Victoria about Xandra's death, not because of the guilt he knew she fe
lt, but because it was his duty. Xandra was ... had been their daughter. At almost the same moment he spoke, Will became aware of the radiating warmth from the fire and the coldness of the ground beneath him—and the dull pain inside. "I will tell her."
He pushed to his feet. The stiff, cramped muscles in his legs protested any movement, but he forced them to carry him to the wagon. It groaned and creaked, rocking slightly with his weight when he climbed inside. Nearly bent over double, he made his way along the narrow path to Victoria's side and lowered himself onto a keg next to her mattress.
"Temple said you refused to eat." He stared at the woman who was his wife, swaddled in blankets like some Egyptian mummy. Only her face was exposed, with its sunken hollows and underlying grayness. The smell of sickness was all around him. She looked tired, dull, and dispirited. Will dreaded telling her about Xandra. "Are you cold? I can have Black Cassie reheat the stones."
"Where is Xandra?" Her voice was thick and weak. Will looked away, avoiding the dark eyes that were trained on him, eyes already haunted by an endless string of sorrows. "She is dead, isn't she?"
"Yes. We buried her this morning." He braced himself for an outpouring of grief.
But all that came was a quavering sigh. "I knew," Victoria whispered. "She came to me last night in a dream. She had a little doll in her arms and she was crying because it was broken and she didn't know how to fix it." A terrible twisting pain gripped his chest, squeezing and constricting until he couldn't breathe. Victoria stared at the wagon's arching canvas roof, which was rustling softly in the wind. "I want to be buried with her, Will. Promise you will do that?"
He started to nod his head in silent acquiescence, then her request struck him, along with the phrase with her, as if she thought her own death was imminent.